


Chained

by LadyNorbert



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent, Magic, Mild Smut, caught feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-30
Updated: 2019-09-30
Packaged: 2020-11-07 22:41:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20824994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyNorbert/pseuds/LadyNorbert
Summary: When Inquisitor Trevelyan captures Crassius Servis, she takes his last name a bit more literally than he expected.





	Chained

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dawnstone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dawnstone/gifts).

> Forgive the ending, I wasn't sure how to wrap it up. I read your list of requests and tried to give you something I thought you'd enjoy - I hope I did!

"You're mine, Servis," the Inquisitor said.

It was post-judging. Crassius Servis was not, by Her Worship's generous grace, confined to the stale horrors of a cell under Skyhold, nor was he bound and gagged and left as a prize for the master he had unintentionally served. He was standing under his own power, waiting for her to direct his next move.

"I believe that was the understanding, Your Worship," he replied smoothly. "You have all of my contacts, every resource at my disposal, in exchange for my life and my... relative freedom."

"Yes, but it's not enough," she replied, and her tone was like dark honey - sweet and silky, but with an undercurrent of something vaguely unsettling. "I require more." She gave a curt nod to the soldiers he had only just noticed were flanking him from behind, and they seized his arms. It was a gentle grasp, but firm.

"...Inquisitor?" Panic threatened to wipe his brain.

"Oh, don't worry, you're in no danger," she assured him. Still sweet, still odd. "I just want to make sure you live up to your name, my dear Servis. You will _serve_. Take him upstairs, and mind the shackle isn't too tight. I don't want him bruised."

He was so baffled to be herded through an unkempt corridor and up a flight of stairs, he pretty much forgot to be afraid. The room in which he found himself was handsomely appointed, with stained glass windows and shelves of books and a canopied bed draped in deep red velvet. Trevelyan's bedchamber? That seemed... unlikely at best.

One of the guards released him, but he was so confused he couldn't have run if he'd had the wit to try. He heard a clank of metal, and felt something heavy on his ankle, and looked down. It was like something from a very peculiar dream. One end of a long chain was fastened to him; the other, to the foot of the sumptuous bed. The chain was long enough, he realized as he tested it, to allow him access to the entirety of the room, including both balconies, but no more. "Why am I here?" he asked finally.

"The Inquisitor intends that you will function as her personal... assistant," said one guard, hesitantly. "You have assorted skills and she intends to make use of them. Serve her well and you will be rewarded. Fail her and, well, I wouldn't want to be you."

"Are the chains really necessary? My word is my bond," he protested mildly.

"It's her choice to make." The guard shrugged. "Live with it, or expect the alternative."

"Point taken."

* * *

Being a kept man wasn't so bad, not really.

Lady Evelyn (she insisted he call her that, saying something about missing hearing the sound of her own name) didn't keep him waiting long on that first day before she joined him, and dismissed the guards. They were alone. Before anything else, he was to get rid of his Tevinter garments; the hood in particular displeased her. He had to remove them, and she studied him for a long moment.

"You're more handsome than I realized," she remarked.

"You sound surprised."

"A little, maybe. I'm glad of it, though, it makes what I have in mind easier to imagine." She pointed at the bundle she had brought into the room with her. "These will be your new clothes. Simple trousers and tunics, nothing very fancy when you're up here. If I take you with me anywhere, I'll see that you're appropriately attired, but up here it's more important that you're comfortable."

"And what sort of labor will I be performing, Inq- Lady Evelyn?"

"I'll have you write my letters, I think. I saw samples of your handwriting out in the Approach, it's quite elegant. You can read reports to me, and if I can't sleep I might have you read books to me as well - I rather like the sound of your voice." Her eyes were deep and blue and thoughtful. "Other tasks, as the need arises. Or as other things arise."

"Where will I sleep?"

"On my bed, obviously. There's only room enough for one bed, after all." She smirked. "As I said, you're quite easy on the eyes, and I think you'll find that some of the tasks I need you to complete are... enjoyable."

Servis wasn't sure if the sound which came out of his mouth was more of a cough or a chuckle. It managed to be both at the same time. "I have to admit," he said finally, "when you sentenced me to serve you, this wasn't what I expected."

"You don't mind, do you, Servis dear?"

Before he could formulate an answer, she touched his forehead. Almost without realizing it, he sank to his knees before her, gazing up in shock. What sort of spell was that? Did the Anchor let her do that, or was it some other kind of skill she brought from the Ostwick Circle? He had no idea southern mages could do anything of the sort.

"No," he replied truthfully, "I don't think I do."

* * *

The months rolled past, and Servis found himself growing steadily more comfortable in his role as the Inquisitor's pet. Part of him wanted to protest, to object at being reduced to what might almost be considered a concubine; but he had a good thing going and he would be a fool not to recognize it. He was alive, he was safe, he was well-fed. He had access to books, he could write letters to anyone he pleased (so long as Lady Montilyet approved their contents before they were sent), and if he requested much of anything it was generally granted. His was a gilded cage, and he was content to be her songbird.

Lady Evelyn was often away from Skyhold, but whenever she returned from a field mission, she came straight to her own room. He soon learned, in accordance with her wishes, to watch for her from the balcony in order to time it just right. Once she was in the great hall, he knew exactly how long it would take her to make her report to her advisors, then climb the stairs to where he waited.

Her first desire was always the same - a hot bath. He would enchant the tub, keep it piping hot and smelling sweet. A towel and an impossibly soft robe were laid out on the bed for her. He waited on his knees while she shed her armor, put away her staff, sank into the water with a groan. The sound always hit him below the belt, but he had quickly learned to be patient. She needed to feel clean before she got into bed, and she lay quietly and let him work the soap over her skin. This accomplished, he washed her flaxen hair and combed the threads and wove them into a long braid. She would emerge from the water then, like some ancient myth rising out of the ocean to be worshiped by her kneeling supplicant, and he would finally stand up and swath her in towel and robe. What happened next tended to vary, depending on her whims, but she tasted like elfroot and smelled like embrium, and her body rolled beneath his like the waves beneath a ship and there was just not enough of her, not enough, not ever.

They never spoke for the first few hours after her return. After days of barking orders and muttering spells and offering bargains and treaties, Lady Evelyn relished the silence. "And your mouth has other things to do, Servis dear," she explained, almost absently. "We'll speak later." So saying, she'd touched his forehead again, pushing ever so lightly, and he'd gone where she wanted him.

He missed her when she went away, his gentle mistress. It surprised him. That he'd miss her warm figure curled against his was natural enough, he thought; but he missed _her_, missed her quick wit and decisive manner, and the way she called him "dear" for no real reason. Little things which didn't even make sense would come to him when he was alone, like the almost artful way she wielded a knife and fork over her dinner or the unusual knot she used when lacing up her boots in the morning. Sometimes she would stand in the open doors of the northern balcony, where no one could see her but him, and let the winds blow down the mountain and over her body. She would stand there, a gold and white statue, for as long as she could stand until her skin was chilled and she needed him to warm her again.

He was supposed to _serve_ her. He wasn't supposed to _love_ her.

Sometimes he wondered if she made him feel as he did. Was it something in the compulsion of her fingers on his forehead, that gentle pressure which reminded him that he was hers? Was there a charm laid on the shackle at his ankle, or did the cook put something in his food which made him vulnerable to suggestion? He wasn't sure, but what startled him more was that he didn't care. Most of southern Thedas loved this woman, and they all had their notions as to why, but she had imprisoned him and then imprisoned him again and he saw no point in complaining. He could beat his wings against the bars of his cage, and to what end? Better to sing for his mistress when she wanted his song, to coax that song from her own throat when she needed to sing. He was the one who made her feel alive. She was the thing which made him want to keep living.

* * *

"Are you pleased with the Servis you're receiving?" he asked one night, in a low and teasing voice.

Lady Evelyn chuckled. "If I weren't, I assure you that you would know." Her fingertips found his forehead again - no pressure this time, merely a caress. "When this is all over, do you want me to let you go? Or will you stay here with me, Servis dear?"

"I want..." He paused, but there was no compulsion that he could detect. "I want to be where you want me."

"Mm. I want you here, but I want it to be your choice. I want you to choose to serve me, not to stay alive but because you want it."

"Then we want the same thing, my lady."


End file.
